


Stone Angel Tears

by 3988Akasha



Category: Star Trek RPF
Genre: Angst, Gen, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-06-15
Updated: 2011-06-15
Packaged: 2017-10-20 10:48:46
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,320
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/211979
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/3988Akasha/pseuds/3988Akasha
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Zach goes to a familiar spot after the final night of AiA. He contemplates L.A. and what, or rather who he left behind...</p>
            </blockquote>





	Stone Angel Tears

**Author's Note:**

> This fic was inspired by some photos taken by bones_2_be and beta'd by alanndra.

The door closed behind him with a soft hiss, a ring of finality hanging in the air around him. He pulled up the collar of his jacket, a futile attempt to block out the biting New York air. With purposeful strides, he left the theater, the alleys familiar to him. He clung to the shadows, allowing them to obscure him from curious eyes. His head hung to his chest, the weight of his thoughts visible to everyone with eyes. No one noticed. No one saw him; if they did, they didn’t say anything. The silence heightened the sense of loneliness which had pervaded his being for the past – week? No, it was longer than that, much longer. To preserve them from the harsh wind, he thrust his hands deeper into his coat pockets, closing in on himself even more. To an outsider he would appear to be a shriveled-up old man with a hunched back.

Without a conscious decision, he was there. He wasn’t surprised; he’d been to this spot before. This would be his final visit. It loomed above him, no longer comforting. Tonight, it was mocking, as if privy to his thoughts. He didn’t blame it for the feeling. He blinked up at it, the gentle face indulgent. Did stone angels cry? If they did, were they stone tears? Would his tears be significant in the shadow of such an occurrence? He knew it would happen regardless. Tonight had been his finest performance, or at least the sycophantic masses had told him so. He believed it, but not for the reasons they gave. He was empty. A vessel void of anything of his former self. Tonight had felt less like acting than was healthy. Tonight he hadn’t needed to adopt the persona of his character. No, tonight the persona had been the man offering fake smiles and warm greetings to the fans waiting for him. As they always wait for him.

Disgusted with himself, he pulled a pack of cigarettes from his pocket. One was between his lips within seconds. Unlit, it hung limply between his teeth. He had quit smoking. Honestly, he’d decided to “kick the habit”. He knew it was unhealthy and more than a little disgusting, but that’s not why he had quit. If only it were that normal, that healthy. No he had quit for the same reason he had started drinking tonic water at bars. All his vices; dirty little reminders. Whispers in the dark of his mind, the part he’d been working to ignore since L.A.

For months he’d been steadfast in his resolution. His soul purging. His salvation in the form of repentance – a turn from his L.A. self. Then, one inevitable night, he’d been in a bar with the rest of the cast. They were all having a good time; well, as good a time as the cast of this particular show could have without losing touch with their characters entirely. He’d seen a flash of an achingly familiar face. His heart had soared. Wings outstretched to the warmth of his old self, he’d crashed back to earth, Icarus with his honeyed feathers. It wasn’t him. It was never him. He’d ordered his first shot of tequila right then. Medicinal amber liquid burned down his throat. One shot didn’t do it, so he took another. Again, the fiery liquid failed to scorch the image, the mirage, from his mind’s eye. By the fifth shot, he’d shed the illusion of forgetting; he drank now to remember. Thoughts, memories, images flooded his mind. In the haze of inebriation, he allowed them to flow freely through his being. It was an exquisite torture. It was madness.

He looked back up at the angel. He’d been incomparably weak that night. The hangover the following day had been a mockery of penance for his shattered resolve. His suffering continued. No matter what he tried, the images wouldn’t leave him. The demons followed everywhere now. Once more the dreams returned. Teasing glimpses of what he’d left behind accosted him everywhere, always disappointing. Now, the angel glowered down at him. He deserved it. The stone angel was righteous in its judgment. If he cried, would the angel cry with him? Would his tears be stones? With the weight of his regret, sorrow, pain they should be at least stones.

Snow crunched beneath the feet of an interloper. It shouldn't matter, but somehow it did. The presence of another person was a violation of his solitude. The footsteps fell silent, but the oppressive presence of the second person still pervaded his senses. His anger bubbled closer to the surface. His ownership of this public space was threatened. Obstinately, he refused to look up, afraid eye-contact would encourage the stranger to linger. He should feel shame at his childish posturing, or maybe he should simply lift his leg and be done with it. No doubt he would find that amusing, might even encourage the action. He possessed no inherent right to be selfish. He was no one to deny this man solace beneath the once-loving gaze of the angel. He should take comfort in knowing his wasn’t the only heavy-laden soul. He didn’t.

Gentle snow began to fall, casting the whole area into a dreamlike beauty. Naturally, he failed to feel the weather’s shift. Absently, he reached up to wipe a tear from his face. Then another. Funny that he didn’t remember when the crying had begun; he had known it would eventually. The more he swiped at his face, the more frustrated he became. No one was worth these tears. He looked at his feet. Little white piles accumulated around the tips. Angels cried white tears. Angels cried frozen tears.

His tears were unwarranted.. No promises made, no promises broken. Even if he wanted more, he would accept the scraps offered to him. They each had demanding schedules. Schedules too inflexible even for one’s friends. Was that the excuse? Had there been an excuse? Maybe – no, he knew they were at least friends. Friends who finished each other’s sentences, but were unable (or unwilling) to make a trip to see another friend. A friend in need. That was the crux of it. He needed. Simple. Nothing else would fix him, nothing else would suffice.

He realized then his utter dependence. His instinct was to thrust it under a microscope, to analyze it, to define it, to make it comprehensible. He wouldn’t. He would only seek to pinpoint the moment on the timeline of his life where he he’d become dependent upon another person. The point at which a part of him had become a part of someone else. His soul ached with the freedom of his choices, the choices separating them; the cure a man no longer by his side. He rolled the cigarette between his lips absently. As if remembering its presence, he patted his pockets. A wry smile touched his lips; he would have cigarettes but no lighter. He could almost hear the laughter of the person he missed most. He would find the situation amusing, offer some nearly insulting joke before proffering a lighter. In return, he would shake his head and accept. With a violent swing, he thrust the cigarette away from his lips, the after taste a bitter reminder. He never should have thrown back those tequila shots. One moment of weakness had brought him to his knees.

The cigarette landed at his feet.

Strange, he’d thrown it harder…it should have gone further. A puff of warm air moved across his face. The stranger; he’d forgotten. It must have hit him. That was rude.

“Sorry,” he muttered.

He felt the laughter reverberate through his being. His body a marionette, he looked up - jeans, and up – plaid shirt, and up – blue eyes, disbelieving.

“You’re cold.”

“You’re late.”

He smiled; he no longer wondered about the tears shed by stone angels.

 **~FIN~**


End file.
